The Wrong Woman (Unexpected Love #1)

by Kimberly Truesdale

  “Miles,” she could hardly speak. She seemed so grateful that he had laid out a plan for her next few hours. Miles was grateful, too. He could be useful.

  “Go,” he was ushering Cat toward the door. “Go and rest, Cat. We will wake you if something happens.”

  He pushed her up the stairs, following her until she reached the bedroom where Isobel currently lay. When she hesitated, turning as if she would go inside again, Miles pushed her gently on past the doorway. “I promise,” he whispered.

  Miles watched as Cat turned into what must be her own bedroom. He hoped that she would get some rest. Her trust in him gave him a new sense of the good he could do while he was here. It gave him hope that he could help.

  But as soon as he stepped into the room where Isobel was, all of that confidence vanished. Miles did not even see that Aunt Hetty was moving toward him. All he could see was Isobel writhing on the bed. She appeared to be in pain, pain that she was trying her best to escape from. Her skin looked pale. As white as the ghosts he and Wesley and Jack used to scare each other with as children.

  And she was sweating. Her hair was matted and spread out across the pillow even as her head twisted from side to side. She was drawing heaving breaths, as if something was sitting on her chest. He could not look away from her, afraid that if he did she would stop breathing.

  Miles might have stood there for an hour, unable to do anything to help, had not Aunt Hetty come over to him.

  “Lord Revere.”

  “Miles, please.”

  She nodded and looked at him curiously. “The doctor is just going.”

  Miles finally noticed that the man was in the corner of the room. The men nodded to each other in acknowledgment and the doctor made his way past Miles and out of the door. Miles still watched Isobel, unwilling to look away.

  Aunt Hetty spoke again when he was gone. “I think that Cat has told you of the situation?”

  Miles finally switched his gaze to her and nodded. “Yes, I have just sent her to rest. I promised her I would watch while she slept and would come to wake her if anything happened.”

  “Good,” she said. “I am glad you are here, though I know it is not proper. It will do you good, I think. And it will do me good to have extra help.” Miles was oddly pleased that Miss Masters accepted his presence so entirely.

  “And you must get some rest, too,” he added.

  “I will. The doctor has said we must only try to keep her as comfortable as we can. She must not jostle her shoulder too much or it may start to bleed again. And she can ill afford more loss of blood. We must feed her tea and broth as often as she will take it.” Miles nodded at all of this. Aunt Hetty looked so tired and worn out.

  “Miss Masters – Aunt Hetty –“ she did not respond to her use of the familiar name, “you must rest now. I will watch for awhile.”

  She nodded wearily. “Thank you, Lord Revere.”

  “Miles,” he smiled softly at her. “But it is I who must thank you for letting me help...”

  Aunt Hetty returned him a weary smile and tried out the familiar name. “Miles, I could hardly keep you away, could I?”

  “No, you could not.”

  “Of course.”

  “I will do what I can. This is my fault and I must care for her until whatever happens will happen...”

  “It is not your fault,” Aunt Hetty said firmly and placed her hand comfortingly on his arm. “The man was determined to hurt you. And he has done so, hasn't he? Not perhaps physically as he intended, but he has hurt someone you care deeply for...”

  Miles' brow creased at the last. He repeated the words. “Someone I... care deeply for... yes...”

  Aunt Hetty smiled. “You are welcome in this house. Perhaps you have forgotten what you were before your brother's accident, but I know that you are a good man, Miles. And I know that you will watch over my Isobel. Care for her today. Help us through this. And do not blame yourself for any of it. You may be sure that we do not blame you.”

  With those words, Aunt Hetty left the room. Miles was alone with Isobel. And he did not know what to do first. He had promised to watch and care for her. But what did that mean?

  For a few minutes Miles only stood near the door where he had entered and looked over the room. It was a comfortable bedroom with all the usual furniture. The heavy brown velvet curtains had been drawn, to block out whatever sunlight dared to penetrate the sickroom. Miles knew it had been daylight when he'd arrived at the house, but he had no idea of what time it could be now. Could the world still be going on outside?

  It did not particularly matter how many hours passed. He would watch as long as he was needed. He settled into the chair next to the bed.

  But her restlessness translated to his own. He needed to do something. He noticed cold tea next to the bed. Perhaps he should try to get her to drink something.

  He moved to the side of the bed where there was enough free space that he could sit on the edge. He moved his arm underneath Isobel's head.

  And he almost dropped her back on the bed. She was so hot. Her neck felt like it was burning through his own clothes and scorching his arm. He forced himself not to drop her. He knew that she needed something to drink. So he focused on sitting her up. But when he reached for the cup, he realized that it was just out of his reach. He carefully placed Isobel back on her pillow, took the cup in his hand, and attempted the task again.

  “Isobel, please drink. You must...” He spoke softly as he brought the cup to her lips. A little of the cool liquid spilled down her chin.

  “Please, Isobel,” he pleaded. “Please drink.”

  Again he raised the cup to her lips. More of the liquid spilled as she turned her head away from the cup. Two more times he tried. Each time growing more desperate. But Isobel would not drink.

  After the fourth time, Miles lowered her back to her pillow and retreated to his chair. He felt defeated. How was he to care for her if he could not even make her drink to save her life?

  Miles leaned forward in the chair, placing his elbows on his knees. He looked at Isobel there on the bed. Really looked at her. The pale skin so different to the life he had seen in it just hours ago. Had it been only hours since the ball? How slowly time could move. What was he waiting for by sitting here at Isobel's bedside?

  Life.

  The answer washed over him with a force he had not been expecting. His head fell and he let out a breath he did not know he'd been holding. I am waiting for Isobel to live.

  He must feed her tea. She must live. Miles stood quickly up from the chair. He must get her to drink. He must not allow her to die.

  Miles poured more of the cool liquid into the cup and positioned himself on the bed again. He would not let her rest until she had taken some tea.

  “You will drink this, Isobel,” he said it forcefully. Really it was to pluck up his own courage. She seemed so fragile. He did not want to break her or injure her further. But she must drink.

  Miles held the cup to her lips. As before, some liquid spilled over them. Miles noticed how chapped they were, dry and cracking with the heat of her body. The tea wet them slightly, but still she did not drink.

  “Isobel,” he said her name again, his command become more desperate. “Drink. Please drink.”

  Again he tried. But she twisted her head at the same moment and spilled the rest of the tea down her chin. Some of it ran on to his leg.

  Miles hurled the empty cup across the room and roughly drew his hand out from under her. Isobel's head dropped to the pillow.

  “Dammit!” Miles yelled at her as he stood up. “Dammit, Isobel! You must drink. Why won't you drink?” He had the desire to reach down and shake her. Instead, he clenched and unclenched his fists as the anger coursed through him.

  He must walk away from her, must move to where he would not harm her. The anger was too much for him. He paced the room, running his hands over and over again through his hair. Every time he looked back at her, the anger would well up again. H
e did not trust himself.

  And then, as suddenly as it had come, the anger was gone. In its place, Miles felt only exhaustion and defeat. He picked up the cup, thankfully in one piece, still on the floor where he had thrown it, and quietly returned to her side. He poured out the last liquid in the teapot.

  Miles sat again on the bed and gently slipped his arm under her neck.

  “Isobel,” he leaned close to her ear and whispered her name. “Isobel, do this for me.”

  Still she would not. With gentle persistence, he tried again and again until the last drop had run down her chin. Miles placed the cup back on the side table. He looked down at her, so helpless.

  Miles took his sleeve and gently wiped away the drops of tea that had fallen down her chin. He closed his eyes, hoping the emotions welling up inside of him would go away.

  But they didn't. Even with his eyelids closed, Miles felt hot tears begin to roll down his face.

  He drew her head close to his heart and began to speak of all the things he'd kept packed away for so long.

  “Isobel,” he began quietly. “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.” He had to stop speaking for a moment as emotion overcame him. “I don't know why this happened to you and not to me. It should have been me. I should be in my bed racked with fever and pain, not you.”

  He grabbed the hand closest to him, her right hand on her uninjured arm, and brought it to his lips. He kissed the hot, dry skin over and over again. “Please. Please.” He repeated the word over and over again. He felt he could not say it enough. It became a prayer that he offered to whatever God would listen. A plea to Isobel and to God that somehow this trial be passed to him.

  And as he intoned this chant and closed his eyes, Miles saw another scene, one faraway in his memory.

  For long moments he could not speak. He could barely even breathe while the sobs held him. Isobel was still in his arms, a weight anchoring him to this moment. Had she not been there, he might have given himself completely to the grief.

  He cried not only for Isobel. He cried for his brother Wesley. The brother whose death was also on Miles' hands.

  “Wesley,” he cried aloud before descending again into sobs. All those years ago, Miles had let his beloved younger brother and best friend die a senseless death. And now history was repeating itself. Now Isobel would die because of him. The physical ache in his chest overwhelmed him.

  Miles and Wesley had been inseparable. His mother had often joked that the two, born just eighteen months apart from each other, should actually have been twins. Wesley loved his older brother as much as his older brother loved him. They got into the same trouble, liked the same things, even excelled in the same subjects once it came time for school.

  Wesley had always wanted to do what Miles did. The year they were separated before they were at school together had been one of the hardest in their lives.

  School together had been a wonderful time. Wesley had easily joined Miles' group of friends and shown that he could be as daring as the other boys. In fact, he went farther than they did just to prove how much he belonged in the group.

  The thought drew a spike through Miles' heart. Even in school he should have moderated his brother's behavior, perhaps he could have prevented the later tragedy. Perhaps it could have all been different if Miles had foreseen, had somehow predicted what would come. Wesley might still be here.

  But Wesley had continued his reckless behavior to try to impress the other boys, even when they finally came up to town. Miles had been allowed to go sooner than his brother, since he was the elder. So Wesley, when Mother had finally let him come to town a year later, had declared that he had “some catching up to do” and proceeded to do it. Miles and his friends had thought it all a grand game. A few times Miles had stopped some of the more foolhardy betting. But the one time he had not been by his brother's side had been enough.

  Miles would never forget it. He had been in the club – the same one, incidentally, where he had apparently won all of Thomas Davenport's inheritance from him – that evening, gambling and drinking like most of his other evenings in town. Wesley had promised to come along after he did “one little thing.” And that had been the last time he'd seen his brother alive. Miles remembered every detail of his face. The blonde hair falling rakishly over his eyes and the lopsided grin that always won him his mother's favor. It was how he would always remember his brother.

  But then... oh, then. Someone had burst in, Miles could not now remember who it had been, someone had burst into the club calling loudly for him and saying there had been an accident. As they'd rushed to the site, Miles learned that Wesley had overturned his phaeton taking a corner too quickly.

  That was how Miles had found him. On the ground with his neck broken. The doctor who eventually looked at his brother had assured Miles that it had been a quick death. But that provided little consolation. Miles had not been there to stop him and Wesley had died. He would forever blame himself. If only he had been there… for Wesley and now for Isobel.

  Miles' sobs had slowed. He took big breaths, gulping in air. Isobel was still cradled in his arms, her right hand still held to his lips. Miles leaned down to her and kissed her forehead. He kept his lips close to her as he spoke.

  “Oh, Isobel. Please... please don't die.” He looked down into her unseeing face. “Please live. I could not bear it if you died. It should be me on this bed, not you. Please live... for me. And for your sister and your aunt. We all need you here with us. I can't have your death and my brother's death on my conscience, too.”

  Miles was growing calmer. The emotions that had been building all evening were finally out. Now he felt tired. He must rest for awhile. And he should let Isobel rest, too. How long had he been holding her in his arms on the bed?

  Miles lowered her gently to the pillow. He sat again in the chair, but moved it closer to her so that he could hold her hand in his. He needed to stay connected to her somehow. As if he could send his life into her just by holding her hand. As if he could anchor her to this world, could hold her here by sheer force of his own will.

  His tears dried as he sat there and held her hand gently in his.

  “Isobel,” he spoke in a normal voice. “Please stay... there is something important I need to tell you when you wake up...”

  Behind him the door opened and Cat entered carrying a new pot of tea.

  “Miles?”

  Miles quickly drew his hand out of Isobel's and stood to help her.

  “Has she taken anything to drink?”

  Miles looked downcast. “Not much. I tried with everything I had to get her to drink.”

  Cat nodded. “I know you did. Now Miles, please go home and get some sleep.”

  He shook his head and looked at Izzy. “I cannot leave her while the fever still rages. I would never forgive myself...”

  “Then let me have a maid show you to a room. You can rest there.”

  Cat ushered him to the door and called for someone to show Miles to a room. He took one last look at his beloved and allowed himself to be ushered toward a bed and a few moments of rest.

  Chapter 22

  For so long Isobel had struggled to get out of the dark room with the pulsing heat. And she was so tired. So tired of fighting.

  At times during the long struggle, Isobel had felt some small relief. Something gentle, soft, and cool on her skin. Small moments when the heat had subsided and the pulsing had slowed to a tolerable pace.

  And the words. She could not now remember any of them, but she had heard different voices saying words that somehow calmed her fear. There were people somewhere out there and they were calling to her.

  But she was so tired.

  She could not fight anymore. She must give up trying to find a way out. There was no way.

  It was time to let go.

  * * * * *

  “Sir?”

  Some voice was calling to Miles, but he was too tired to open his eyes and respond.

  “Sir?” It cam
e again. More insistent.

  Miles grunted in response. Just one more minute to sleep.

  “Sir, Mr. Jack Shepherd has arrived. He awaits you in the front parlor.”

  Jack! Miles, still fully clothed, rose from the comfortable bed. In his concern for Isobel, Miles had almost forgotten about his brother. What had Jack been doing for these past hours? Miles was a few steps toward the front stairs before he remembered the butler. He turned back hastily.

  “You will tell Miss Catherine and Miss Masters?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Miles threw the thanks over his shoulder as he rushed downstairs.

  Jack was moving restlessly around the parlor. As they had on Jack's arrival in London just weeks ago, the brothers looked at each other for a moment with wary eyes. Miles could feel the emotions threatening him again. How glad he was that his brother was safe. He moved quickly to embrace him.

  “Jack!” It came out as a strangled cry.

  “Miles, thank God.” Jack pulled back to look at him. Concern crossed his face. “A terrible night?”

  “Like a nightmare,” Miles stated.

  Cat entered the room at that moment.

  “Miss Catherine!” Jack exclaimed and moved toward her. “How is Isobel?”

  “Izzy is still in the middle of a bad fever, I am sorry to say. Aunt Hetty is with her now.” There was hardly any emotion in her voice. She had spent all of it already and looked exhausted from the effort.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Jack asked eagerly.

  Cat shook her head. “Nothing, unfortunately. I wish there were. It would make life easier right now. But the doctor says we must only watch and wait. It's all up to Izzy. We must pray that she does not let go.”

  Miles spoke. “We have been taking turns tending to Isobel all day.” Miles finally thought to look at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was half past eight in the evening. It had not even been a full day since Isobel had been taken. This time last night Miles had been preparing for the ball that would change his life.